by Jacqui Rose
‘uncle, no. Please don’t.’
Tariq spoke in Urdu, appealing to Mahmood. At first he thought his uncle was going to take his anger out on him as he stared with blazing eyes, but instead, he stopped, lowering the cane and dropping Laila’s arm.
‘She is going to come back in half an hour with two other ladies and your future mother-in-law to check you.’
Laila’s voice quivered, it was barely audible. ‘Uncle, can I speak?’
Mahmood straightened himself up, rubbing his left leg. It was all getting too much for him. He’d thought it before, but he knew now he was right in thinking he’d been cursed to have been burdened with his irresponsible niece. ‘Go on.’
‘Uncle, there is no check.’ Laila paused, her words catching in her throat. Tariq heard the urgency and fear in her voice as Laila tried to recover her composure.
‘I know there isn’t a test. It’s impossible to tell. Riding a bike or a horse could make a difference. Please uncle, I’m telling the truth, being able to tell is just an old wives’ tale.’
Mahmood shouted, angry at the suggestion. ‘How dare you. It’s only an old wives’ tale for those who have something to hide, and when did you ever ride a bike or a horse?’
Laila swallowed, her cheeks turning red as her teenage embarrassment showed. ‘Tampons. They would do it. They could break the hymen.’
Mahmood’s dark eyes fixed on Laila. The loathing on his face was apparent. He struggled to talk as his revulsion with Laila and her boldness in discussing a subject so foul, so unclean, so offensive, threatened to overwhelm him. ‘I hope for your sake Laila you are intact; otherwise I won’t be held responsible for my actions.’
Laila stood in the tiny bedroom. It was no larger than the pantry at home. It held a bed, larger than her single one but smaller than the double one her parents had shared, occupied now by her mother and uncle who’d given his mother no choice. A carved wooden chest of drawers sat in the corner, with a large colourful prayer mat resting up beside it. The window had bars but no glass, and was covered by a simple piece of muslin cloth.
The door opening made Laila jump. From behind the door came the matchmaker, flanked by two other women of a similar age to the old lady and a similar body type. The final person to enter the room was a tall, slender woman in her fifties dressed in a peach sari. No one said anything, only stared at Laila, who tried to smile out of politeness. The hostility for her was etched on the three old ladies’ faces, who continued chewing on the betel nut which had turned their lips a dark shade of red.
The tall woman stood observing the room, eventually turning her attention to Laila. She was surprised to hear her speak English, albeit laden with a heavy Pakistani accent.
‘Laila. Your uncle has explained to you what is going to happen. I’m very sorry but we feel it necessary. A girl who runs off and disobeys her family is a girl who cannot be trusted. Perhaps cannot even be trusted to respect her own body.’
‘But … I …’
The lady held up her hand as Laila tried to speak, and she fell silent.
‘For a young girl, for a young woman, you have a lot to say. Too much. You will have to learn if you want to be a good wife, you must hold your tongue.’
Laila sounded childlike as she spoke, frantically looking from one woman to another. ‘I don’t though. I don’t want to be anybody’s wife. I’d like to go to university. I’m good at science and my teacher says if I work hard I’ll be able to get into a good place, possibly even somewhere like Cambridge. That’s what my father and I always dreamed of. He always wanted so much for me. Maybe you could explain that to my uncle; you could explain to him I’m not a bad person and I don’t mean to show him disrespect or seem ungrateful … I just want to go home. Please. Please, help me go home.’ Laila burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.
The woman walked towards her. Her eyes showing no compassion, she gently took hold of one of Laila’s hands, bringing it down from her face. ‘That won’t be possible. If this test turns out to be fine, tomorrow you will marry my son.’
‘Your son, I …’
Laila’s future mother-in-law held her well-manicured finger over Laila’s mouth. ‘I told you. You have too much to say. Lie down.’
Laila’s eyes were wide open with fear. ‘No … please, I don’t want to.’
‘I said, lie down.’
Laila started to shake her head, her hair sticking to her face as it came into contact with her tears and running nose. ‘Hold her down,’ the tall woman ordered the others, and they immediately grabbed hold of the now-hysterical Laila’s arms and dragged her towards the bed. Her resistance came to an abrupt end as a small leather strap whipped across her face. Laila’s fear increased as she stared at the face of the woman who tomorrow would become her mother-in-law. Clutching the strap, she glared at Laila, her voice coldly level. ‘You don’t want to make an enemy of me. If you want me to make sure I tell your uncle you’re still a virgin you need to behave. Open your legs and don’t move.’
‘But I am a virgin. I’ve never even come close to kissing anyone.’
‘I don’t think you quite understand, Laila. I will only find you a virgin, if I choose to find you one.’
The threat was unmistakable. Having no choice, Laila lay back and closed her eyes as she opened her legs. She was shaking and momentarily she tried to resist as the old women held on to either knee and started drawing them wider apart.
A sharp pain seared through Laila. It felt like a sharp instrument was being forced inside her. She screamed out, wincing through the intense agony.
‘When was your last period?’
Laila could hardly think, let alone speak. The pain was unforgiving. ‘I said, when was your last period girl?’
With the end word of the sentence came the end of the sharp pain, only a dull throbbing was left. The woman stood above Laila, her arm outstretched with two of her fingers covered in blood. Laila watched as the matchmaker hurried round the bed with a small white bowl Laila hadn’t noticed before.
The woman dipped her hand in, quickly washing it before drying it on the towel.
‘Well?’
‘It finished about two weeks before I flew out here.’
‘Good. Perfect timing. Then there’ll be nothing stopping you getting pregnant as soon as possible. Tomorrow, after the wedding is a good time to try.’
The woman turned away and nodded her head to the old ladies as she spoke.
Laila’s Urdu didn’t need to be fluent to know they’d just been ordered to lock her in. Now there was no escape. She had become their prisoner.
Outside in the dark, below Laila’s room, Tariq wiped the tears from his face away. Even though he was on his own he felt foolish crying. He was a grown man, but he’d heard everything that had been said. Heard Laila screaming. Heard her pain.
Throwing his cigarette away, he listened to the crickets and strange noises of the night. He didn’t move, although the hard stone he was sitting on was uncomfortable enough to do so. But he wanted to think. He needed to think of a way to help his sister before it was too late.
16
The early morning brought the sound of a cockerel and with it an oppressive heat. It also brought thoughts of Ray-Ray. She imagined his blue eyes. Warm, kind and dancing. His cockney twang which had always made her laugh. His tough demeanour but soft heart, and the fact he could’ve sat next to any girl but had chosen to sit next to her.
Laila frowned at the thought. She refused to allow herself to think that’s where the trouble had started, because she hadn’t done anything wrong. Hadn’t shown any disrespect. If it hadn’t been Ray-Ray, it would’ve been somebody else, something else. A look, a word, playing the wrong music, taking too long to come back from the shops. Anything could’ve given her uncle the excuse he was looking for. Her sisters, who she never saw or heard from any more, had been married off, but they had seemed to accept their fate quietly and she wasn’t like them.
She�
�d desperately wanted to ask her uncle about Ray-Ray again, but she hadn’t dared, thinking it best if she left the subject of him well alone. Bringing him up in conversation would certainly cause more misplaced suspicion from him and she didn’t want to ask Tariq either for the same reason.
It might also bring more repercussions for Ray-Ray. This way, if she kept her mouth shut she was sure he’d be safe from any more harm.
Laila wished she could see Ray-Ray again, but she knew that wasn’t possible. Not now she was getting married. It wouldn’t be safe for him, even more than her. She was terrified he would hate her now. Worried he would think she’d let her family go round. And now no doubt Emma Gibbs from 6C would be trying to get her hooks into him by now. What she wouldn’t do to see his face again, to be able to laugh at one of his silly jokes. To feel the same kind of butterflies in her tummy she’d felt when she’d walked along the street with him; dizzy with excitement.
She smiled sadly as she looked out of the window through the bars to the distant mountains. He would be getting on with his life now and she was happy for him. Going back to London after the summer. Forgetting she ever existed. But she knew she would always remember him. Ray-Ray Thompson, the sweetest boy she’d ever known.
Laila continued to lie on the bed. She thought about Tariq and the way he’d stepped in to stop her uncle hurting her. He’d never done anything like that before and she was grateful to him.
She was still in the clothes from the day before. She felt numb; disconnected. She hadn’t slept, or she didn’t think she had. The night had carried a cold fear and she’d lain on the bed shivering, unable to get warm.
In the early hours she’d given up calling out and asking for someone to come and had banged on the door, until her hands were raw. In the end she’d had to crouch in the corner and do a wee. She could smell it now, the strong stench of urine mixing with the heat and the smells of the cooking coming from the kitchen below.
Even though it was early she could hear the sound of music playing in the distance. The celebrations had already begun.
The door being unlocked made Laila sit bolt upright. She immediately felt dizzy, realising she couldn’t remember the last time she ate a proper meal. She watched as her future mother-in-law walked in with a grim expression on her face. As she spoke, she sniffed the air disdainfully. ‘Laila, you need to start to get ready.’
‘Yes, er … I don’t know what I should call you.’
‘Auntie, will be just fine. Now get up, there’s a lot to do. And Laila?’
‘Yes Auntie?’
‘No tricks. No trouble. No shame.’
Laila looked first at her Auntie’s face and then down at the leather strap she was holding tightly in her hand. Not for the first time, Laila Khan wished she was brave enough to take her own life.
Two hours later Laila sat in the chair, two women by her feet, two women by her side, all of whom she hadn’t met before. They didn’t speak to her, only with each other as they painted her hands and feet in decorative red henna.
‘A symbol of blessing and a symbol of fertility. You’re a very lucky girl Laila,’ Auntie said, nodding her head in approval at the artwork.
Laila said nothing and watched the intricate patterns being drawn. Her father had once told her of another reason why the delicate designs were painted on. It was to ward off evil. And as Laila closed her eyes, empty of tears, listening to the drums being played outside, she hoped above all that what her father had told her would hold true.
‘You look beautiful.’ Tariq walked into the room and admired his sister. His eyes though, rested on the swollen lip and the bruised right side of her face. The make-up was heavy and although Laila looked more stunning than he’d ever seen her before, she looked older, as if the years had been added on overnight.
Looking into her eyes he could see the sadness and he felt ashamed. He whispered, not wanting anyone else in the tiny room to hear, ‘It’ll be all right, Laila. You’ll see, I promise. I’ll do everything I can.’
A hint of puzzlement crossed Laila’s face. ‘Tariq, thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘For yesterday. For standing up to uncle.’
Tariq said nothing as his new Auntie frowned at them both, coming closer, wanting to hear anything which was said between them. He drew his eyes from the hostile stare and focused on the heavily embroidered pink shalwar kameez and dupatta his sister was wearing.
A tikka, the traditional gold head chain, lay sparkling in the middle of Laila’s forehead, encrusted with diamonds. Gold and emerald earrings hung from her ears. A matching necklace hung heavy on her neck and a large round nose ring, which was connected to a gold and ruby chain, hung from her nose and across her cheek. Both arms and both feet were adorned with delicate silver and gold bangles.
‘Ready?’ Auntie spoke as she drew down the dupatta to cover Laila’s face.
‘Tariq!’ Laila’s voice verged on the hysterical and although Tariq couldn’t see his sister’s eyes he was certain they were wide open with fear.
‘Shhh Laila, it will be okay. Trust me.’
‘Of course it will,’ the woman snapped. ‘How could it not be? She’s marrying my son. Now let’s get on with this, I don’t want to keep anyone waiting.’
From beneath the long pink dupatta, Laila’s hand reached out and grabbed hold of Tariq’s wrist. Her voice was strained and urgent. ‘His name. Oh my God, I don’t even know my husband’s name.’
The bridal procession marched slightly quicker than Tariq thought was necessary. He could see the old ladies hurrying to keep up with his newly acquired Auntie, who strode as if she was on a bracing country walk rather than a regal marriage parade.
As he followed, the smell of the roast meats hit Tariq’s senses. He felt guilty for feeling hungry when he knew he should be thinking about his sister rather than his stomach. Behind him the sound of drums started up.
They walked into the tattered marquee, which was decorated with red and white flowers as well as several large candles. A sea of bearded white-robed men sat chatting to each other on one side of the tent. On the side the women and children sat, dressed in brightly coloured salwar kameez. At the far end of the marquee there was a makeshift platform covered in petals.
Tariq saw his uncle helping Laila onto the platform. She knelt down unsteadily, her face totally covered. He wished she could see him, just to make eye contact, to let her know he was here for her. He sighed and turned to look for somewhere to sit. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the groom entering, dressed in a silk cream Nehru collar jacket and matching trousers, several garlands of flowers hanging around his neck. Tariq wasn’t able to get a glimpse of his face either as it was covered by a heavy gold tinsel veil hanging from his pleated red turban. The only thing Tariq could do now was watch and hope for the best, hoping he’d come up with a plan to help his sister.
Laila knelt, unable to see anything apart from the chiffon dupatta covering her face. She felt protected from what was going on around her but the sound of clapping told her the man she was about to marry had entered the marquee.
Her heart was racing from the shallow breaths she was having to take. Her stomach tightened, making her feel as if she needed to rush to the bathroom. A moment later she felt someone brush her arm as they sat down next to her.
The temptation to take her dupatta off to stare at him was overwhelming. She’d forgotten what he looked like. The photograph she’d been shown hadn’t been a good one and she’d only looked at it briefly, before pushing the image of his face out of her mind.
The voice of the imam, the man conducting the ceremony, growled out loudly, giving Laila a fright. She jumped. A hand touched her knee. It was him.
The sound of the ceremony began to drown out as Laila became aware only of the person next to her. She could feel him there; almost sense his breathing as he knelt next to her. She closed her eyes which were tired and sore from all her crying. She was about to be married and there was n
othing she could do, nothing, apart from hope and pray.
Laila’s dupatta was lifted up. She squeezed her eyes shut, then braved herself to quickly open them, expecting to see the man she’d just married. Laila was surprised however to find herself staring into the steely brown eyes of her mother-in-law, her Auntie. ‘You need to come with me so you can get changed into your next outfit. Then we can get on with the celebrations.’
Laila strained to look past her Auntie, wanting to catch a glimpse of her husband, but all she could see was the back of him, surrounded by the other male guests who were loudly congratulating him. She saw her uncle turn around. Catching his eye he looked away quickly, but not before he’d given her a look of disdain. The next person in the crowd she recognised was Tariq. He smiled and stepped towards her but a hand belonging to their uncle reached out and held him back. Tariq mouthed a sorry as he was led outside to join the festivities with the other men.
As the marquee emptied, Laila looked down at her hand. The large, almost gaudy, gold wedding ring decorated her finger. Twenty diamonds, eighteen emeralds and five tiny sardonyx stones. Made especially for her; made to let her know she was no longer Laila Khan, and from now on her life would never be her own. Still kneeling on the unsteady platform in the scorching heat, Laila bowed her head as her Auntie stood waiting for her sour-faced, feeling totally alone.
‘Thank fuck that’s over with. Can’t get this flipping turban off quick enough.’
Laila stared at her new husband in amazement as he threw off his turban. His northern English accent punctuated the air, not quite fitting with his handsome dark features.
‘You’re …’
‘English? Were you worried? Did you think you were going to be marrying a foreigner? Afraid I’d be one of them ignorant Pakis?’
She was shocked by the way he spoke. She could see the amusement in his eyes, though she didn’t understand how using such a derogatory term was funny in any way. She took in his face as she spoke. ‘No, no, I didn’t know what to expect. I guess I am slightly relieved though.’
